


Last Watch

by tigerlady (shetiger)



Category: CS Friedman - Coldfire Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:Frostfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-09
Updated: 2008-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetiger/pseuds/tigerlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I'll stand guard," Tarrant told him.</i> - <b>When True Night Falls</b></p><p>A moment as Gerald watches over the camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Watch

"Are you sure he'll be all right?"

Tarrant simply looked at the rakhene woman. Any creature with sense would have quailed at the cold disdain he directed her way, but then, his traveling companions had shown a notable lack of sense recently. Courage to shame the greatest of men, yes, but very little sense. Hesseth stared back at him, undaunted, a fierce gleam in her eyes that said she would stand there until he answered her, or until she keeled over herself. As if it wouldn't be a simple matter to wait until she did just that: her eyes were screwed tight, the delicate membranes still swollen from the constant daylight glare; she held her right arm up and close to her side, a tired parody of attack readiness; and she swayed slightly where she stood, awaiting his answer.

"He needs to rest," Tarrant told her again, unwilling to waste any more of his own time with her bestial posturing. "As do you and the girl."

She held his gaze a few seconds more, whether because she didn't trust him, or because she was simply too tired to react more quickly than that, he didn't care to know. Then she looked down to the priest's sleeping form, nodded once, and walked away, her usual agile stalk a mere shuffle. Tarrant watched while she painted a few precious drops of water over Jenseny's lips and then curled around the girl's body like a living blanket. He waited until her breath eased into that of dreamless sleep—and then he looked down at the form at his feet.

"Far too stubborn for your own good," he murmured, though he could have shouted the words and Vryce wouldn't have heard. The priest's breathing was deep and heavy, though slightly labored, as if he was still struggling to make up the deficit of the day. As if he was afraid to truly let go for fear that the trees were behind this sleep, rather than his own human need. Tarrant could twist that fear to his own end, could feed upon it if he chose, but it would be a mere drop to slake his hunger.

And— Vryce needed as peaceful a night's rest as was possible, if they were to have any hope at all of success. There was little Tarrant could do for him, other than what he had already done. Even in the Forest, the methods he could call upon would be literally overkill for the small abrasions that marred Vryce's skin, for the exhaustion in his muscles. What the priest most needed was a balm for his soul. He needed _hope_. Hope—the thing that Tarrant must utterly crush, for the good of them all.

 _It is the only conceivable way,_ Tarrant thought as he turned away, fingers reflexively plucking at the wrinkles in his tunic. Coldfire flared about him with a thought, scouring away red dust and Vryce's human sweat. He had work yet to do—beyond his nominal guard duties. The Prince wouldn't attack tonight, that he was certain of. Not that Tarrant trusted his word. No, an active strike against them at this point would be inelegant, an unnecessary expenditure of resources when they were so close to walking into his grasp. The creatures of the Wasting, however, had no such compunction, and Tarrant kept his senses attuned for them as he made his way to the edge of the granite.

The flow of the earth-fae was strongest here, where grey granite met black basalt in an uneasy alliance. He unsheathed his sword and then knelt. Coldfire licked at his wrists, like seeking like, and blazed the entire length of the blade, a small pool of it kissing the earth-fae where the tip of the blade touched the earth. The sword was fully recharged, as much as he would need, but if all went right, he would very well have no other opportunity to strengthen it. So he reached out, as he had done nightly before this, and drew in the earth-fae. Used his own being to change it, to shape it. To direct it to his sword so that it might sustain him when he needed it most.

Hours, he knelt. His focus was on the power he wove, but to mistake that focus for single-minded abstraction would be a deadly mistake. No faeborn approached, but he watched for other things. Anything different, anything new. Anything that might signal Calesta's handiwork.

And then: _Something._ At the edges of his vision, at the periphery of his **other** senses. He rose easily, sheathed his sword smoothly, gave no outward sign of his awareness as he turned.

Sunlight flickered. He flung a hand up, reflexively guarding his face. The fae surged within him, but he had no target.

And neither was he burning.

Tarrant dropped his hand. The sunlight was gone, and he realized now that it hadn't been an illusion. Or rather, not one of Calesta's making. Light shimmered again, but it carried soft colors this time.

The girl was dreaming. Tarrant climbed the shallow slope silently, stopping two paces away from where she and Hesseth slept. Another image flickered above Jenseny's head, and this time he thought he recognized the white branches of the trees, though they were twisted into monstrous animated skeletons, complete with grasping claws and gaping mouths filled with row upon row of teeth. Short seconds later, the trees blurred out of existence, only to be replaced by a bloodied man.

Tarrant watched, studying her dreams, sifting through the metaphors for any knowledge she had kept hidden from them. But there was nothing, and it wasn't long before the images flickered and went dark for the final time, undoubtedly snuffed out by the shifting of the moons.

 _Such a liability._ He should have finished her when he had the chance, and saved them all the trouble. But then Vryce would have turned against him. There was no question of that. And without Vryce....

Tarrant turned, made his way back down the slope. Vryce was still sleeping deeply. His mouth had gaped open at some point. An effort to ease his breathing, surely, but it would add to the moisture lost to the dry air. It was a simple matter to press his hand to Vryce's shoulder, to coax the man to roll away from the coldness of his touch. The priest settled onto his side without waking, but as Tarrant had predicted, he'd shut his mouth.

 _If only it was that easy when you're awake,_ Tarrant thought, but his wry humor left as quickly as it came. Whether Vryce ever forgave him the deception was immaterial as long as he was bright enough to act when the opportunity came, and yet....

Tarrant shook his head. The plan was in motion. He would know soon enough whether he had made the right choices. For now, the only thing left to do this night was fulfill his word. He drew the corner of the blanket that had fallen away back over Damien's shoulder. Then he sat down, not far from the priest's head, and settled his sword across his knees.

And he watched.


End file.
